


breakage

by mellowly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: A lot happening between the lines here, Aftermath of Violence, Consensual Violence, Fist Fights, Gen, I'm Sorry Poland, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Incredibly Unhealthy, Literal Murder, Power Dynamics, Rating E to be safe, Temporary Character Death, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 05:18:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13495718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellowly/pseuds/mellowly
Summary: poland needs relief.america needs to win.(or: it's so very simple, really.)





	breakage

**Author's Note:**

> this is so incredibly chaotic
> 
> made for a friend.

**unknown location, january 3rd, 00:51**

* * *

 

Poland locks eyes with him in the dim light ( a parking lot, how cliché ) - America pretends he can see the shine of alcohol there and stares back  
( they’re blinking in perfect synchronization, he thinks, or maybe Poland isn’t blinking at _all_ ).  
  
The clock ticks towards one in the morning.  
“Come on. Come _on_ ,” Poland goads - begs? - and shoves his shoulder with a flat hand.  
  
They’re pulled tight. Stretched thin. Grey-white-black asphalt and blue, blue beneath Poland’s perfect green eyes that slant up at the corners.  
America has an uncanny urge to hit him. So he does

 

  
_Hard_. His fist curls and finds Poland’s side, just beneath the ribs, and the sound he makes is music in the most primal way, doubling over and wheezing, gaspingly, and America does not let up, he smacks him, red on Poland’s narrow cheeks, the bones beneath his skin that America wants to break and break and _break_ and-  
  
Of course, Poland fights back.  
Chivalrous, gallant in his rage, he surges forward and plants his elbow in America’s abdomen, without finesse, without intention other than to hurt, to wound, to enrage, and it works as perfectly well as always. ( no use pretending this is not what they both want, what they _need_. )  
America feels the perfection as his knuckles make contact with Poland’s chin, then draws back, swing forward upward inward _down_ , a series of hits until he loses himself in the rhythm and the crumbling of muscle and bone beneath his hands.  
Not much fat. Never was.  
That’s the nice thing about Poland: reedy, thin, breakable. Destruction was never more arousing.  
  
Poland collapses to the floor, and America can feel his iron crown burn and singe his mind, charred black, as he sets a boot on his narrow ribcage.  
  
Snap.  
  
Snap  
  
snap. It is so very  
  
  
easy. It’s so easy, crushing thin hands beneath his step, only a little weight needed, so very simple to make him gasp and shiver and _scream_.  
There’s blood, on the floor on his hands on his shoes on his clothes in a pool around Poland’s head, in his hair, like a halo.  
  
The crack of his spine echoes in its finality, and the light is gone from Poland’s perfect green eyes that slant up at the corners even when Alfred closes them for basic decency and lights a cigarette.  
  
  
  
Poland turns over to his side after a few minutes and chokes on his sobs and his cries.  
America is so kind as to hand him a handkerchief.  
  
The bruises bloom like violets on fragile white paper, A4.

**Author's Note:**

> ( inspired by the song Chimera by ATOLS sung by IA. check it out if you haven't. )


End file.
